King's Gambit
by Caleythia1
Summary: That Tom’s chess pieces talk to him isn’t so usual. It's what they have to say that makes them so special. One shot.


**King's Gambit  
**by Caleythia

**Summary: **Written for the prompt "a board game gone bad." That Tom's chess pieces talk to him isn't so usual. But what they have to say is.

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Tom's chess pieces talk to him. Of course, in the Wizarding World, that's not so unusual. All Wizard's Chess sets can talk, although it should be noted that not all do. A good set helps out it owner, offering helpful advice and encouraging words. Some, of course, are anything but helpful. It quite increases the challenge of the game when a player must try to plan his moves out, all while trying to ignore the varying pieces yelling and cajoling. Cries of, "Are ye daft, laddie, move that one and it'll be your head," or "Don't use the rook. He's a right tosser. Owes me money. Move me instead."

So, while all chess sets _can_ talk, their talk focuses mainly on the game or the player. Tom's, however, was quite different. Unlike many of his Housemates, Tom's set wasn't a family heirloom or a newly bought prize. He found the antique set one day while wandering around the rooms in the lower dungeons. The set had been left on a small, ornate table in an even more ornate and palatial bedchamber decorated all over with snakes. He wondered if maybe, just maybe, this had once been Slytherin's bedroom. Certainly it had belonged to some Slytherin or other. He tried talking to the pictures on the walls, to the serpent shaped drawer pulls, even to the carved wooden snakes that adorned the doors and bookcases, but to no avail. They simply looked at him with their beady eyes and refused to speak. Day after day, he tried. Finally, he received a response, but not from the snakes.

"Now, then, boy, that is quite enough of that. We have had quite enough of you coming in our chambers, day in and day out, sputtering and hissing like a kettle. We would appreciate some quiet, if you would be so kind."

Tom, who had been hissing at the large picture of a python above the fireplace, turned around quickly. "Which one of you said that?"

"Really," a female voice said, "can't the imbecilic boy even tell the difference between English and that hideous hissing?"

"Now, now, my queen, you know the other one had the same problem as well. He never knew which language he was speaking."

"Quite, right, my lady. The knight is right. It's not the lad's fault. Although, it would not surprise me if he had gone a bit soft after sputtering at those ignorant beasts day after day," another voice cut in.

Tom's eye finally settled on the chess board. They were the ones talking, and quite unlike any set he had encountered before. He wondered to himself, if these pieces had indeed belonged to Slytherin, they might know where the Chamber lay hidden. He smiled and bowed gracefully.

"Pardon me, your graces, I did not mean to offend you. Could you perhaps tell me to whom you, and this bedchamber, belonged?"

The red king stepped forward and gazed up at the young man searchingly. He raised a red eyebrow (and wasn't this set the most exquisitely carved that he'd ever seen, Tom though) and replied, "That we _could_, young squire. We certainly could. But, first, your name, boy."

"Of course, your majesty, how rude of me. I am Tom Marvolo Riddle, of Slytherin."

"Riddle. That is not a name I know. It is of no matter, Master Riddle. We belonged, oh, long ago, to Master Robin Salaman, Head of Slytherin House."

The white king stepped forward to join in the conversation. "Ah yes, Master Salaman. A great man, and so skilled in the dark and forbidden arts. He, like you, found us here in this school. Before that, we belonged to Mistress Heloise de Noir, a fabulous poison maker, and before that...oh, I forget. But all save the first have found us here."

"And all have been great and powerful wizards and witches," the white queen interjected. She turned her stern face to Tom and looked sharply at him. "And you? Are you a great and powerful wizard? Do you seek greatness in whatever form it may take, even if the path is dark and lonely?"

Tom was startled by the question. There was a formality to it, as if it were a test. He noticed that all of the pieces seemed to leaning forward, eagerly awaiting his answer. "Of course. No matter what it takes."

The red king smiled. "That is good, young squire. It is good. Now, then, sit, play. The white side will play for itself, and we will be your army."

And Tom played many nights, sometimes white, sometime red. While he played, the pieces talked to him, directed him, told him the secrets of the school. And when he finally found the Chamber, they were proud of their boy. When he learned how to make a horcrux, the white queen shed tears of joy for her boy. This one, this one would be better than all the rest.

Tom left Hogwarts, and he did not take the set with him. He no longer needed them. Now, they sit, again, and wait. Several children have stumbled on their room, but they remain quiet. None of them was right, none would be great. So they remained silent. And one day, a boy so like their Tom came into the room, a small boy with an odd scar on his forehead, a boy that hissed at the paintings, just like Tom. Perhaps they would break their silence once again.


End file.
